


Break

by captainodonewithyou



Category: Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. (TV)
Genre: AU, Angst, F/M, Fluff, Friendship/Love, Hurt/Comfort, Oneshot, TW: Drugs
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-12
Updated: 2015-09-12
Packaged: 2018-04-20 08:05:23
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,406
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4779986
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/captainodonewithyou/pseuds/captainodonewithyou
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Skye turns up high and in terrible condition at Lincoln's door. [AU, Oneshot]</p>
            </blockquote>





	Break

"What the _hell_ , Skye?"

He is kinda blurry and it is kinda dark so she can't make him out as well as she would like, but she recognizes the black and yellow Pikachu shirt as his beloved pajama top immediately (she has stolen it more than a few times through their lives), and it is only then, really, that she considers that she would currently probably estimate the time to be late as hell, and that she has been banging on his door in the dead of night for at least five minutes longer than necessary to wake his entire complex.

"Oops." A smirk tugs at her lips unbidden. "On the positive side, maybe some of your neighbors will think you were just having _really loud sex_."

He runs a hand tiredly through his perpetually messy hair, and he doesn't even seem to have enough energy to glare at her.

"There is literally no universe in which knocking on a door could be mistaken for really loud sex, but I appreciate the sentiment."

He is coming a little more into focus now, enough that she can see the little concerned crinkle edging at the corners of his eyes as he takes her in.

She is sure she is a sight to behold, really. Knotted hair and a stain in her shirt and bags under her eyes that she had observed in a car window that morning. But she is exhausted and she can feel her composure crumbling and she just wants him to let her in the door.

"If you let me in I promise not to knock on your door anymore," she tells him conspiratorially, swaying closer and wiggling her brows.

His expression doesn't change.

"I think that is the general consensus on door knocking etiquette," he confirms deadpan, eyes shifting to where she crosses her finger sloppily over his heartbeat to guarantee her promise–before she is distracted by the bright yellow Pikachu in the center of his shirt and is slowly tracing his shape instead.

"Pikachu is such a pretty bird."

His jaw clenches as he stares at her, still tracing Pikachu's general form on his chest.

"You're baked."

It isn't a revelation–she knows it is obvious enough, but she shrugs anyway–shrinking away from him, because she sees the shift in his expression and she knows where he is going.

"Did he even bother to bring you here, or did he just lock you out?"

His jaw is tense and his expression hardening, and she doesn't want to hear it, not again.

"I'm coming in." She tells him, and doesn't even give him a chance to respond, stumbling past the doorway and into the apartment she knows better than her own, managing not to stumble over the loose board that she generally falls on at least half of the time.

He stays in the doorway a moment, body tense–and she hopes for her sake he is too tired to pursue the issue, at least tonight.

She knows _she_ is too tired.

She turns to the couch and the door slams and she knows she isn't getting off the hook.

"Can I take a shower? Your shower is Shower God. It's like the rain? But better."

His eyes rove again over her sloppy figure, and the anger is replaced with a something softer–but still annoyed. She moves closer to him, not entirely sure of her exact intent until she's tracing the pikachu on his shirt, again.

"Wait, where are his wings?"

He sighs.

"Take a shower, Skye. I'll wash your clothes."

His words register slowly, and her responding smile is belated.

"Can I wear Pikachu?"

He doesn't even flinch, this time, grasping the hem of the shirt and pulling it over his head, shoving it into her arms before she realizes what is happening.

Her finger is still on his chest.

"Did you know you have abs?"

" _Shower_ , Skye. Leave your clothes outside the door."

He leads her to the bathroom with a hand at the small of her back, ignoring her complaints that she ' _knows where the damn God Shower is, alright?_ '

His shirt is still warm clenched in her hands when he shuts the door behind her.

xxx

He is sitting on the couch and she is still buzzed when she comes out of the bathroom, toweling her hair dry. Her lids are drooping but she knows the concern eating at his expression as he watches her approach.

She sits right up against him on the couch, dropping her head heavily to his shoulder and letting the echo of his heartbeat fill the stretching silence.

"I'm sorry," she murmurs, because she is, and because she can't stand for his frustration to bubble over and ruin how relaxed she is, tuned into his slow, even heartbeat.

"Why?"

His genuine response puzzles her, and she reluctantly lifts her head from his shoulder. She is a little startled to find him turned towards her, faces closer than entirely socially acceptable. But she is still comfortable pressed against him, chin digging into his shoulder, and her body is too heavy and content to move.

"For waking you up. And pissing you off."

His brow furrows sharply.

"When have I ever been angry at you, Skye?" He asks, and he's dead serious, but a smile plays at her lips.

"That time I buried your G.I. Joe and forgot where? My dad grounded me for a _week_."

He glares at her, but it is a soft sort of glare that feels oddly more like a smile.

"When have I ever been angry at you when we weren't five years old?" He amends, and she thinks she catches the edge of a smile as she buries her face back against his shoulder.

(She thinks of the time she broke his favorite Elvis record when they were 13, and the time they were going to go to prom together but Grant un-dumped her at the last minute, and the time she had puked on the carpet at his parents on his 19th birthday, and the floor shaking fight they had when he told her he was quitting medical school with only a semester to go.

He may have been annoyed with her plenty, but no matter how she scrapes through their memories, she can't come up with a single instance of anger that lasted more than a flash).

"So you're angry at him."

It isn't a question because it doesn't have to be. He doesn't have to answer, either.

"I know that you know you deserve better than my asshole brother," he finally says softly. "We agree he's a piece of shit, we've always agreed on that. I just… I wish…"

He doesn't finish the sentiment, letting the silence fall back around them—not quite as comfortable as before.

It is the quiver of her shoulders that gives her away.

"Are you crying?!"

"No."

It's a sob but she feels him nod, anyway.

"Alright."

His arm finally loops snuggly around her waist, drawing her nearer to his side.

"I broke up with him."

It isn't the first time and she knows her friend well enough to know he is thinking it won't be the last—especially when his shoulders sink. But there is something different this time.

She _isn't_ going back to him—not this time.

"In retrospect, I didn't actually think it through at all," she murmurs, not really with any end point—just because with Lincoln, she can just let the little things pulling at her mind play off her tongue and he'll take away some of the pressure they are pressing against her shoulders.

It's always been that way.

"I just… was over it," she pauses again, wry laugh tugging past the remnants of the heavy sobs in her throat as she turns her head further into her friend's shoulder. "I don't even have anywhere to stay."

"Of course you do."

There is no hesitation in his tone.

"Lincoln, I can't—"

"Until you get back on your feet," he responds stubbornly. "You can stay here. Or with Jemma. Or even your dad, but probably not until you are less stoned," his voice takes a playful edge and she smiles, lifting her head and peering up at him.

"I am less stoned."

" _Less_ less stoned, cuddles."

Her smile cracks a little wider, melting at the lump in her throat.

"Thank you, Lincoln."

"Hmm."


End file.
